In Love and War

Author's Note:

As is often the case, I woke at 04:00 this morning with the bones of a story running through my head. Rather than letting it stew, I threw off the bedclothes, put on a brew and got stuck into putting some flesh on the bones down onto paper.

For the first time ever, I managed to start and complete a fictional story before the screws came to drag me off to work parade. Another first is that I have come as near as damnit to coming up with a 750-word submission. Having long since learned that perfection is an almost unattainable goal, I've decided to leave it at 769 words (by my count) rather than spend any more time on it.

Apart from not hitting the 750-word target, my one major regret is that I've failed to convey the anger I felt when I first opened my eyes this morning. It's hard to build a lot of emotion into such a short story.

I'm sure there will be some who believe I have posted this story under the wrong heading.

Oh, just one other thing. As usual with my stories, I have disabled anonymous comments.

Please Note:

The right of Black Jack Steele to be identified as the author of this work - In Love and War - is asserted under worldwide copyright laws. All rights are reserved.

IN LOVE AND WAR

Copyright © Black Jack Steele 2024

A captain in Military Intelligence, I was sitting in the mess tent in our Afghanistan base sharing a beer with Bob Savage - a civilian intelligence operative who also happened to be my fleshly brother - after I'd returned from an inspection of a few of our outlying military compounds when I saw a look of anger cross his face.

Following his gaze, I glanced behind me to the next row of tables in the small officer's mess. That was when I saw her.

The nurse was still in the process of swinging her second, scrubs-encased leg across the long form that constituted seating in our primitive surroundings in this military compound. As she settled into place, I watched as she reached up and placed her hand on the arm of the man beside whom she had insinuated herself. It was an intimate gesture; the sort of thing one might expect to see between a couple who had been close for some time.

I knew the gentleman concerned; although he was only a gentleman in so far as he was a fellow officer. In all other respects, he was anything other than a gentleman. He did have a couple of things going for him, though. He was a major, and he came from a wealthy family. The second thing he had in his favour was that assuming he survived his current posting - which was an unknown factor for each and every one of those of us sitting in the tent that evening - he saw himself as going places.

The 'he' I am talking about is Major Daniel Lindquist, who is our current battalion adjutant, which makes him second-in-command over a complement of more than eight hundred officers and other ranks. In my eyes, and in the eyes of all but a small clique of officers in the battalion, he's a show pony. He is a man who is more than happy to ride on the achievements of others and accept the glory they deserve. As is often the case with officers of his ilk, he proudly wears the honours won by much braver men than he'll ever be.

Unfortunately, I, Captain Jack Savage, am one of those who must answer to pricks like him.

Give him his due, though, he looks the part of the heroic soldier. Major Lindquist is good-looking, has jet-black hair, stands about one hundred and eighty-five centimetres (6ft-2in) tall, and weighs in at around ninety kilograms (200lb). While he's not as field-fit as the rest of us, he's in reasonable condition for a bloke of his age.

But it was his age that was the problem. While those of us coming up behind him were still only in our twenties, he was already in his late thirties. What he and everyone else knew was that barring some miracle, if you hadn't made it to half-colonel before you were forty, your military career had stagnated.

Still, his family had influence, which is why some of the younger, more ambitious officers hung around him like flies around a fresh turd. Obviously, the lady I mentioned earlier - the one who had drawn the ire of my brother - was obviously one of those who believed that it would be advantageous to ride on his coattails.

As was evident from her garb, the lady in question - Sally-Anne Smith - was a member of the battalion's medical staff. In fact, she was a senior nurse practitioner carrying the rank of captain.

Two things struck me as I turned back from seeing what had drawn my brother's attention. The first was that with her strikingly good looks and her hourglass figure - which was highlighted by the medical scrubs she wore - the one hundred and sixty-five-centimetre (5ft-6in) tall, blond-haired woman was the 'Barbie' to the major's 'Ken'.

The second thing that hit me with the force of an IED was that even if the major and the female captain were not yet sharing his bed - which was highly unlikely, given their body language - she and my brother had already been swapping bodily fluids. The rage I could see on his face could only have been born of jealousy... plus the pain and humiliation of having her sluttish behaviour rubbed in his face.

Mind you, I knew exactly how he felt. It took every ounce of self-control I possessed to stand and walk steadily out of the rec tent without breaking down. I needed to prepare for what would be my final inspection tour the following day. It's almost too much to bear when one learns that your fiancé is fucking both your brother and your superior officer.

---ENDS---